The Stalking-Horse
by thecoppercow
Summary: The story of how Lord Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, rose to Power. Or possibly, the story of how Young Downey grew up and became a politically savvy operator. Assassin's Guild era: Spans from just after the Revolution in Night Watch to the eve of Vetinari's accession. (Expect slash, some canon pairings, some non-canon. Work in Progress. Chapter 4/12)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine. Both Downey and Discworld are created and owned by Terry Pratchett. I just play with them.

Stalk·ing-horse (_noun.) Origin: early 16th century_

1. Something that is used to conceal someone's real intentions.

A horse trained to conceal the hunter while hunting. A sham political candidate put forward to mask the candidacy of another or to divide the opposition.

* * *

Downey was more than a little drunk.

After a raucous, if edgy evening spent toasting the inauguration, _(Downey cannot pretend to be particularly politically savvy, but he keeps his wits enough to notice that many of the post-grads are slightly subdued, there's a lot of whispering hidden behind bright smiles, and Ludo scowls all the way through Follett's little speech)_ he was well past the point of logical reasoning.

Unfortunately, he wasn't drunk enough to seriously limit his movements, which was why, at three in the morning, after a night spent wandering around certain parts of the city, it made perfect sense for Downey to be exacting a _hilarious_ revenge on that smooth-talking, irritating little scag. By climbing into his rooms with a small, wriggling sack. Tigers. Hah. He'd show him. _Now...that win'ow ish Robertson's study, and thats'ish bedroom, so this one..._Balancing the sack over one shoulder, Downey giggled his way over the windowsill, stumbling lightly as he landed on the rug. This was going to be brilliant. Wait till Dog-botherer woke up and sat down at his study. Now to find that desk...

At which point, the sack squirmed painfully, he pitched forward, tripped over something hard, and landed on something very soft. Very soft. There followed a series of short yelps, not all from him.

What Downey, being rash and drunk and Downey, had failed to take into account was the fact that the layouts of the Lower Sixth study-rooms were mirrors of their neighbours. This definitely wasn't the empty study he'd been hoping for.

A confused, curse-filled moment later, there was a sharp kick to his ribs, the sound of a match being struck, and as the oil lamp flickered into life, Vetinari's face, appearing out of the darkness. _Damn, damn and sod it._

With dark hair mussed and pale blue eyes widened slightly, Vetinari looked the closest to shocked that Downey had ever seen him. For a heartbeat, two, three, they looked at each other; Downey sprawled across the covers, clutching at his chest, Vetinari having scrambled up to the head of the bed, a glimpse of collarbone under his dishevelled nightshirt. Even through the warm haze of the brandy, it began to dawn on him that this was probably a stupid idea for a prank.

"..._Downey?"_

There was nothing for it.

'...Hullo, Dog-botherer.'

There was another moment of mutual staring. Vetinari seemed to come to a decision. The hand that had been resting on the bedside cabinet was withdrawn, brought back to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. _(Despite the stupor, some small part of Downey is still sharp enough to notice the gesture and relax slightly; they're both Assassins, however young or immature. It wouldn't do to forget.) _

"Downey, I almost hesitate to ask, but _what are you doing in my bed?_"

Vetinari's voice was raspy from sleep and full of a weary disbelief. He sounded tired but resigned, as if he'd been born to suffer fools climbing into his bed at night, but would get on without complaining. It was strangely endearing, almost_- No_. He cut off that line of thought immediately. What is _wrong_ with me? He's giving me _that look. _Answer the question, you prat. Ugh, I am _never_ drinking again.

'It's...' Damn, his mouth felt dry, and every option sounded ridiculous. He found he'd trailed off into a mumble. 'well...was tryna get m'revenge...for the tiger...' It came out sounding childish, petulant, even to his own ears.

Even as the words left his mouth, and Vetinari's eyebrows rose, he realised how that might sound, and found his face growing warmer. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Before he could stammer out a denial, some sort of clarification, the other boy let out a sudden hiss.

'Did you just-...there's something licking my feet!'

A sharp tug, and Dog-botherer was off the bed, bare feet landing on the rug, pulling the sheets aside to reveal a small bundle of orange and black fur.

* * *

Author's notes:  
I spent some time wondering what Vetinari's reaction would be - certainly an older Patrician Vetinari would have stabbed first and asked questions later, but as a teenager I doubt he would have been as hasty - he's not quite well-known enough for assassination attempts - yet. In the context of this story, Young Vetinari decides he's not threatened by a drunken idiot in his bed at all. Read into that what you will.

Young Assassins are roomed in dorms for the first few years, then given their own bedroom, with a small study attached - this is similar to most British public schools, and it is a cliche that these rooms are supposedly cold and spartan, with windows that never close, in order to "build character".

Disclaimer: Not mine. Both Downey and Discworld are created and owned by Terry Pratchett. I just play with them. For oneinspats, who provided much encouragement and inspiration. And listened patiently to rambling questions about details such as names, coffee and historical pyjamas...

Stalk·ing-horse (_noun.) Origin: early 16th century_

1. A horse trained to conceal the hunter while hunting.

Something that is used to conceal someone's real intentions.

3. A sham political candidate put forward to mask the candidacy of another or to divide the opposition.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your most dire revenge plot was to break into my bedroom at night and...gift me with some tiny ginger kittens, Downey? " Vetinari cradles one in the palm of his hand. The others shuffle about the covers sleepily, investigating every crease and fold with tiny squeaks, leaving trails of charcoal in their wake. "They've been tarred with lamp-black, I see."

The tone is more one of bored observation than actual enquiry but Downey still finds himself struggling to explain. It had all seemed a lot funnier when he was drunk.

"'They were meant to be tiger-stripes. I-I was aiming for your desk, put them in there with some milk, they'd be angry after being cooped up...and I'd wait until after first bells to get them..."

"Ah, very small tigers. I see. That one is grey, though?"

"...Uberwaldean tiger?"

"Those are white, Downey."

"...Yes. Well. Got them off a man down the pub. Said he didn't want the litter, I thought he'd have chucked them on the Ankh, otherwise..." Downey has always had a soft spot for animals but he's not about to tell _Dog-botherer_ this. "It seemed like a good idea at the time?"

He realises he's still holding the clay dish and milk-bottle out in front of him awkwardly, as if to justify himself. Somehow, effortlessly, Dog-botherer has regained the upper hand. Vetinari has settled back onto the pillows, and is idly stroking the smallest kitten, and looks as if he'd never been anything other than calm.

Downey decides he might as well get off the bed.

He should have known this would end with him making an ass of himself, most of their rivalries did. Should have known he'd never win, not against Dog-botherer with his words and his wits and that blasted smile.

There is yet another awkward silence as he realises he's said that out loud. It's only broken by the satisfied purring of the kit in Vetinari's hands; its brothers have had enough of exploring, and have fallen asleep.

'Oh, I don't know, Downey. I'd certainly count these little fellows as a win.' The little scag is smiling. It's not _that blasted smile, _either. It feels genuine, and gently amused, and slightly lopsided, and Downey has to convince himself that the sudden tightness in his chest is heartburn. 'But perhaps it's high time they found a bed? One that isn't mine?'

It's as polite a dismissal as he can expect, to be honest. If Downey had been in his position, there'd have been a lot more punching involved, and it is with this thought that he slips back down the wall, chastened.

By the time Downey wakes up (in his own bed, with a mouth like the underside of a urinal), it's nearly noon, and the kittens have widdled on his pillow. Memory returns in fragments. Lamp-black. Windows. Collarbones. Oh, _sod_.

A week passes. Downey gives one of the ginger kits to Franny Eorle, while Ludo declares the small ginger-and-white one is the perfect present for the latest girl he's been courting (one of the Venturi girls, Downey can't remember which.)

The other kitten he gives to a kitchen maid in return for an emergency out-of-hours omelette after a particularly nasty hangover; apparently Mrs Sugarbean has been complaining about mice. He swears he'll never drink again. He means it this time. May crawls to an end, and he largely forgets about the whole Dog-botherer incident, with coursework and finals taking over the bulk of his worries. He decides to go home for the weekend, before the worst of exam season begins.

In the end, the grey kit stays with Downey. He thinks it's a suitable pet for an Assassin. Maybe he can call her Shadow, that has c_oolth_. Unfortunately, the moment he brings her inside the house, Annie has gathered her up with a squeal, and wastes no time in dubbing her _Baroness Fluffington_. It sticks. Cats being contrary creatures, and this particular sod being no exception, she refuses to respond to anything else, however hard Downey tries.

Dinner is a tense affair – Richard and George are back from Hugglestones, and while Mummy fusses over having all her children home at once, his father seems preoccupied, at once severe and slightly lost. He spends most of the main course ranting about the mess left by the riots and the hit that business has taken. Snapcase has not seen fit to reopen trade negotiations with their Quirmian neighbours and their coffee stocks are suffering as a result.

John Downey is a keen businessman, who has pulled his way to the top through his own hard work, enough that he can afford to send his eldest son to the Guild. Despite his lack of connections in the nobility, he has cornered the market in tea and coffee and was one of few canny enough to recognise an opportunity in the new import coming in from the Tezuman Empire. This new _chocolate _drinkhasbeenanunparalleled success, and _Downey's _had even landed a contract with the Palace. Under the new regime, however, dealings with Klatch are regarded with mistrust, and every foreign bargain is considered suspicious.

There are more bureaucratic audits, more spot-checks as the new inspectors decide the packing plants must be checked at random intervals for 'undesirable activity'. More ..._voluntary donations_ to pay as every other tea clipper is stopped and deemed un- seaworthy by the new harbour-men. Ships coming in are boarded at random, and we all know why, his father fumes, waving his fork about to emphasise his point. Downey nods sagely and pretends to understand, while wondering why Dad can't just throw them off the boat. It's private property, surely?

Richard and George are rapt, hanging on to Dad's every word, eyes wide. Annie merely smiles to herself and flicks peas onto his plate.

The days pass in a whirlwind of deadlines and practice runs. He takes an inhumation for Claudo Lavish – the young lord wishes to be rid of an inconveniently hardy uncle. He decides to use poison; the old uncle looks vaguely like a beloved old retainer, and this way feels less personal. He doesn't feel a thing. Ludo moves on to seeing Florence Selachii, which causes no end of resentment with her brothers. In the end that entanglement ends in a mess of words and Ludo's bed being filled with custard. He spends the night lounging on the floor of Downey's study instead, wiping his eyes on Baroness Fluffington's fur and muttering into his (Downey's) best brandy.

With one thing and another it's a week again before he runs into Vetinari behind the reference shelves. They've both chosen slow-acting poisons as their sixth-form project, and Downey finds himself staring at the boy's eyelashes, lowered as he bends over _Stiefmann's Neurotoxins._ Vetinari looks up, questioning, and it takes him an entire minute to stammer out that he was waiting for the book. There is their usual exchange of witty insults*, but it feels forced, as if they are just going through the motions. Before he can wonder at this, Dog-botherer has pushed past him and is striding away across the room. Downey resolutely does not watch him go.

June arrives, bringing with it unbearable heatwaves, followed by thunderstorms and a flood of firsties, filling up the desks and shattering the silence of the library with their prattle. Tiny assassins with tiny worries. Downey takes to hiding in the upper poisons lab in order to finish his essays. Dr Mericet seems to accept him provided he stays quiet, and life moves on. Ludo starts seeing Franny Eorle, and Downey wonders if he ought to feel more angry about this. As it is, apart from a vague feeling of indignation over the kitten, he can't bring himself to care. He decides it's probably the heat, it makes everyone sluggish.

It's in the middle of a particularly unforgiving dry spell, so warm that most of the senior assassins have stripped down to shirtsleeves and whites and Downey is lounging in labs, trying to get his oleander sap to congeal, that Mericet stalks in, followed by a mildly put-upon looking Dog-botherer. In his customary clipped tones, the professor informs him that since the rest of his classmates have chosen to write their papers on various other methods of inhumation**, Downey will be working with Vetinari for the partnered section of this project. Sentence pronounced, he disappears silently, leaving Downey to stare dumbly at the boy.

*Well. Vetinari brings the wit, and Downey has the insults.

**this last said with a pause and a sniff that very clearly implies that while crossbows and garrottes might well be swift, poison was clearly the only elegant option for a gentleman.

* * *

Notes:

I like to think that Downey is exactly the type of 18 year old boy who would think that the name Shadow was 'cool'. Of this I have no doubt.  
What I did doubt a bit more was his sentiment while carrying out assassinations, but a lot of his behaviour in later life points to a character who has some standards when it comes to life and death. Which makes it seem as if he's still protesting a bit too much during the 'haven't you killed anyone yet' scene – a sort of adolescent macho-ness.  
The Downey family's fortune is a facetious reference to John Cadbury, a tea/coffee merchant, who also introduced chocolate to high society with the help of his two more eager sons.

* * *

Replies:

Mary Craig: Thank you so very much for you very kind review - I'm glad you enjoyed these two. I've been fascinated by how Downey's character matures from Night Watch to his later years for a while now, and have been wanting to explore how Vetinari became Patrician, too, so this story formed. I should update this story with the next little bit soon - there's a mirror version over at the archive of our own if you want to see it updated as it's written...


	3. Chapter 3

It is widely known that the course of History can hinge on the tiniest of choices. The fate of great nations, the rise and fall of statesmen, the very outcome of world wars; all of these can turn on something as small as a dropped coin or an undercooked casserole. Great turning moments, like cogwheels, depend on smaller ones.

More often than not, however, history just…potters along, events rearranging themselves so that they fall into the same track as before. Decisions are subtly different; Fate insists that the outcome be the same. For example, in one universe, Downey opens with a cutting remark about Vetinari's age, Vetinari responds with a scathing comment, and Downey's foray into politics is over before it begins. In this universe, Vetinari still becomes Patrician of Ankh-Morpork in the final days of his thirtieth year. The city is still attacked by a dragon. Downey still makes Guild Master before he is forty. He settles down with a sweet young man who does the Guild's accounts, and never, ever wonders.

In another time-line, Vetinari is the one who takes himself off to a corner of the lab, and they interact as little as is necessary during the experiment. In this particular universe, Vetinari becomes Patrician two years earlier. Cruces shoots Vetinari in the hip; he uses a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Downey weds Elizabeth Parvey, a soap heiress. They are happily married till her tragic death in childbirth, three years later.

There is even a universe* where Leonard da Quirm is distracted by a stray butterfly, and never creates the gonne. Dr Cruces remains the Head of the Guild. Vetinari becomes not only the most successful peacetime ruler of Ankh-Morpork but the first president of the United Sto Plains countries, too, till he dies of heart strain, four years after the Grand Unification. Downey retires to the shires with his poisons and papers and gains a reputation as a quiet, boring scholar. He never marries, never finds love. He never loses it, either.

Some might argue that this is the most merciful universe.

As it is, it's an achingly warm day, Downey is feeling almost dozy in the heat, his eyes hurt from the glare of light on glass, and he's just too weary to do anything other than stifle another yawn and wave vaguely at the table. It feels as if the sun has sapped the fight right out of his bones. When he turns to toss his notes across the bench, Vetinari is settling into a seat with a curious expression in his eyes.

There is a pause. The world moves by. Downey notices fine, dark hairs on Vetinari's wrists as he rolls up his sleeves and picks up a Heat-Things-Without-Scorching-Them-By-Controlling- Flame-Output- Device**, and is filled with a suddenly, panicked urge to break the silence.

"So...Poisons, Dog-botherer?"

The pause is now Awkward. Vetinari's eyes move from the milky poison to Downey and now the expression is very much recognisable as his 'why was I born to suffer fools'. Downey is suddenly reminded of that drunken night the month before, of collarbones and kittens and utter embarrassment.

"That is, well, I wouldn't have had you pegged as a poisons fellow, that's all. I mean, I've seen you on the shooting range, I assumed Projectiles*** was more your...thing."

Vetinari responds without looking up, leafing slowly through Downey's notes with long, sallow fingers. Downey wonders how the boy remains so pale, even in this sun –

"Well, a well-aimed arrow is probably quicker, yes. But there's always the distance aspect – being miles away when poison takes hold allows one to feel quite detached about the business. It's clinical, compared to ranged weaponry. Do you know, I'd have said the same about you?"

It takes a moment for Downey realises this is Vetinari's little joke about the flying fruit tradition at dinner, but by then he's already babbling about how, well, crossbows are all well and good but a good sophorific just seems more humane, kinder, even...he trails off, wondering what it is about Dog-botherer that drives him to make a fool of himself in front of the boy, repeatedly.

He expects jeering, or maybe even something along the lines of "wouldn't have taken you for the soppy type, Downey, but really that's more what _he'd_ have come out with in Dogbotherer's place. Vetinari simply looks up, head cocked, as if seeing him anew. With the light behind his head, his usually angular features look..softened.

"Kinder." Vetinari rolls the word around his mouth, thoughtfully, and it crosses Downey's mind that when it's not bearing insults, it's a...nice voice. Pleasant. He might have noticed it earlier if all their interactions hadn't been comprised of Vetinari being sharp and Downey interrupting him.

"There is that, I suppose. Then again, the Ancient Klatchians considered poisoning food the most treacherous of all human deaths – it was the juxtaposition between the trust inherent in giving a body nourishment and that which was deadly which they found..."

As Dog-botherer talks about the poetic quality of poison and how cruel the reputation, he lets the words wash over him, thinks that maybe Vetinari isn't as _quite _ as superior and sneery as he'd always assumed. Maybe this won't be utter torture. They're all gentlemen here, after all.

They spend the rest of the afternoon quietly working out how best to adminster the oleander – Downey has been experimenting with different forms of sweetener, trying to find a method of negating the harsh, bitter taste. (There are always extra marks for style. Sticking the stuff down the client's throat and hoping for the best is for naïfs.) He's utterly frustrated, tired and half asleep in the humidity of the afternoon, and he's about to throw this batch out when Vetinari pipes up.

"We're going about this the wrong way. Oleander is bitter. That is the nature of it – it's why our ancestors knew not to eat it. Maybe we should be working _with_ this quality, not trying to erase it..."

"Muh, Do'botherer?"

"I mean you're good at concealing poisons in sweets, Downey, and this batch is hardened – why not pass it off as a bitter candy-stick, instead? Something that's supposed to be harsh, like a soorploom?"

"Dog-botherer, that's-I mean, Vetinari, you magnificent fellow! That's brilliant!"

As he leans back, chair on two legs, buoyed, he catches the tiniest of grins crossing Vetinari's face – a slight, pleased flush which is as charming as it is smug, and for some reason he's filled with an urge to compliment the boy again, to try and recreate that adorable expression.

At which point he lowers himself back onto the ground with a click of wood on tiles.

Downey would be the first –well, okay, maybe not the first, but he's fairly ready to admit it – to point out to the world that he's not exactly overendowed in the brains department. He works hard, but when it comes to speedy thinking or introspection he's hardly Denephew Boot. Which is why its a new and interesting sensation for him, when, like frost forming across a glass pane, a single realisation crystallizes in his mind. _Adorable. Charming. Ah._ _I'm in trouble._

*In one of them, Downey suffers a strange accident that dyes his hair purple, has to be pensioned out of the Guild, takes over his father's business and becomes an insane chocolate maker who insists upon only hiring goblins with their faces painted orange, but the less said about this universe the better.

** A new-fangled invention, patented recently by a young undergraduate in the Alchemist's Guild. Mericet had sniffed approvingly, and the Guild had ordered two dozen – they doubled up as equipment for the Inhumation with Extreme Prejudice credit course.

***Projectiles and Ranged Weaponry is taken by one of the youngest professors in the Guild - Dr Do'om, a quiet, moody little man who wears so much black that it concerns even his fellow Assassins.

* * *

Some Notes:

An observation on Night Watch: What kind of bully bullies someone with the line "when are you going to pass some decent exams?" I don't remember the bullies at my school being quite so academically encouraging...  
In a lot of the later books, it feels as if Vetinari occasionally just wants a compliment. But if he doesn't get one he doesn't seem to care, he just walks around with an air of self-assured 'I _am_ the greatest ruler, why thank you'-ness which is somehow _beyond_ smugness or humility. In any case, I feel that the gonne-shot and the end of Men at Arms is when he begins to 'mature' as a nearly omniscient leader.


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn't get much sleep that night. It's not because of Dog-botherer, he tells himself – Downey has never been one to brood over something as mere as _feelings_. Especially ...confusing feelings.

His default reaction to anything so confusing has always been first to ignore it in the hopes that it will disappear*, and then failing that, to tackle it with aggression, hoping for his natural mix of boldness and brawn to see him through.

No, Downey is lying awake in bed, smoking, head buzzing, watching the sun rise, having stayed up half the night celebrating Jezza's engagement.

Or as the gilt-edged invitation currently being batted around the room by the kitten has it, the Occasion of the betrothal of the Right Honourable Jeremy Rust, only son of Lord and Lady Rust, to Lady Cressida Eorle, younger daughter** of the Earl of Eorle.

He'd been dragged out by Ludo and regretted going almost the moment he stepped foot in the manor. All three of the Selachii siblings had been there, as well as Francesca Eorle, and the evening had become a strange high society version of Sardines. Downey wanted to avoid Francesca Eorle, Franny was steadfastly ignoring Ludo, Ludo lept into corners to escape Flo Selachii, and the Selachii brothers sneered at Horace Venturi, who in turn glared terrifically at Downey, (for reasons known only to himself).

Unfortunately, all the dodging and weaving required to avoid running into Franny meant Downey had ended up trapped in a corner, being bored at by Jezza's uncle, an army Captain who couldn't be more than ten years his senior but behaved more like a crotchety old grandfather. He'd found himself putting away one too many sherries just to drown out the drone of Everything that is Wrong with This City and These Upstarts.

Topics had ranged from Why We Should Dismiss The Warnings about the State of The City Coffers As Yellow Scaremongering and Give Johnny Klatchian a damn good thrashing, What? to These Damn Nouveau Riche Merchants , No Breeding. It had taken much tongue-biting and a frantic signal for a refill for Downey to keep quiet at that point***. He could have sworn the servant had given him a sympathetic wink.

It was when the uncle started on a lecture about inverts and _those_ temperaments, Brazenly Flaunting Themselves These Days, Winder should Have Hung that Poet Instead that Downey had started on the gins.

By the time he'd escaped Rust's clutches, the party had begun to die down, the Selachiis had been the first to leave, and the blushing couple had crept away at some point in the evening. He'd found Ludo sitting out on the balcony, head bent towards a redheaded gentlemen with a truly incredible moustache, but the minute Downey had got within hearing distance, alarmingly enough, there was the eyebrow waggle that they'd decided would stand for "push off, I might be in with a shot here." Even more alarmingly, young Venturi was sitting opposite the pair, glaring at a champagne flute. A second later, Downey was relieved to recognise the clarifying hand signal – "Go away, quick." Confused and already unsettled by Rust's ravings, he'd decided to take his leave.

He'd meandered home through the warm, slightly pungent night air, cigarette in hand, in through the Guild side entrance, and crawled into bed, musing. What on the Disc had Ludo been up to. And with Venturi, of all people. How happy Jez and Cressida had looked. Franny. Dog-botherer. Rust. That business with the Marquis of Fantailler's son and That Poet.

Everytime he thinks about it, the curl of Rust's lips as they formed the word 'invert', his stomach seems to flip over. However much he tries to convince himself, he can't stop remembering Dog-botherer in labs, either. It's not a restful night.

It's not a restful day, either. Saturday is the day of the first year rugger finals, and his half-hearted attempt at concentrating on politics revision is shattered by the cheers and shouts floating up through the window. At some point Baroness Fluffington has decided that his essay is perfect play-material, and most of the afternoon is spent trying to decipher shredded notes. The burgeoning headache caused by the heat and the noise doesn't help, either.

He barely feels ready to face people by early evening, and is a little late in getting to dinner. When he sees Vetinari sitting in his usual spot, flipping through a notebook while drinking soup, his heart begins to pound, painfully.

_Act normal_, he tells himself. _Act normal, and it'll all just go away. _

There follows the most excruciating moment of indecision he's ever had. Acting on instinct alone, he passes Vetinari's bench, picks up the nearest foodstuff, telling himself _well, if I just throw something at the back of his head that's as normal as things'll get. _This is overtaken by a rather convoluted mental monologue, and he freezes. _Don't be a nit. He's -decent enough and you have to work with him now. _

_He might not necessarily be upset if I throw them at him. He's looking at me. What if he considers this a little tradition – he all but joked about it...If I don't he may ...think it odd. I'd better move, though. This is getting awkward._

The moment is now painful. _Now I'm holding my arm out. This is beginning to look stupid. People are beginning to stare. Do something, you fool. _In the end he panics, tosses the bread vaguely in Vetinari's direction and tries to saunter to his seat without looking. This gets the obligatory chuckles from the table, but Vetinari just raises an eyebrow at him. _Those were croutons, you ass. They landed in the soup I seasoned his soup that was seasoning I'm going to die. _He slumps into a seat at the Prefect's table in front of Ludo, who gives him an indulgent smile and some of the pork chops he's saved****. In an attempt to change focus, Downey tries to question him about Magnificent Moustache, but Ludo seems distracted by the Head table. Or rather, at the lack of Headmaster at the table. Downey follows his gaze, and indeed, Drs Mericet and Hill are sitting either side of a conspicuously empty chair.

"Huh. Folly off sick, then?"

Two seats down, Odo Pully, a tall boy with a ridiculously long fringe and even longer forehead, leans over a bread basket. "Haven't you heard?  
Turns out old Follet's decided to take a lo-oong break."

"Holidays, you mean? But what-"

He's interrupted by a shake of head from Ludo. "Nope. I don't think he's coming back, either."

Pully nods, buttering a roll. "I heard it from Roberts – last they saw of him he was heading out of town with some broad. Bad business, you know?"

Downey looks round the table. About a third of the prefects look as blank and confused as he feels. Others are nodding knowingly. The rest of them, however are suddenly engrossed by their food, pretending not to have heard. Vetinari seems to be lost in his own thoughts. Venturi is giving Pully a sullen glare, though Downey is beginning wonder if he hasn't just got an unfortunate forehead. Ludo munches asparagus thoughtfully, eyes on the top table.

The rest of dinner is uneasy and quiet.

He's preoccupied with prefect duties for most of Sunday, and doesn't have much time to think about the oddness. He's drawn the short straw on the dutes rota, and ends up refereeing the Wall game for the younger years. This mainly involves suffering through a sweaty, achy afternoon shouting himself hoarse while getting hit repeatedly in the face with several large leather balls. And occasionally, a flying first-year.

Octeday morning, however, and Downey is skulking in the back of Chapel for Assembly, nursing his head. Follett is nowhere to be seen. After the Reverend has finished groaning his way through Hymns, Dr Mericet sneers at them from the lectern. The message is short but final. Dr Follett has taken a leave of absence for reasons of ...health. Dr Spalding, formerly of Traps and Advanced Ambush, will be taking over as Guild Master in Spune. Mr Worcester will therefore be taking on his teaching duties. Assembly dismissed.

Over the chatter and bustle of boys exiting the hall, Downey notices some of the prefects scowling and muttering – Ludo looks to be arguing furiously with Pully, blond curls bouncing as he shakes his head. Eventually he breaks away and ducks under the archway.

Downey begins to question him while trying to avoid tripping over a student "-it's a bit of an odd choice for Master, isn't it? Balding Spalding?"

"I'll say - Blind Io, it's a disaster, it's just so brazen.." Ludo's cheeks are red with anger, but he doesn't seem to want to elaborate. "...Listen, I've got duties in half an hour and I've skipped breakfast. I'll see you at practice."

"But _what's_ brazen?"

"Never mind. D'you remember if there were any kippers left over? I really fancy kippers..If I get to the kitchens quickly I might catch old Sugarbean..."

He might bristle at being kept in the dark by Ludo, of all people, but if he's honest with himself this sort of thing has always confounded him. He's barely aware these currents exist, and fellows who always seem to know which way they're flowing amaze him.

"It's an odd decision, certainly, but not entirely unexpected. Perhaps the council felt it was the only choice they had."

When he turns, Vetinari is close behind him, leaning his head against the wall, waiting for the crowd to pass. Looking right at him. Relaxed blue eyes, ebony hair on oak panelling, and for a moment Downey isn't quite sure how to reply.

_He's _talking_ to me! Even without coursework or flying food!_

Thankfully, the part of his brain that isn't a besotted twelve year old takes over.

"I don't understand. Surely Mericet would have been a shoo-in? And why is it such a big deal anyway?"

"I doubt Dr Mericet would have taken the post had it even been offered him, Downey."

Without realising, his feet have fallen into step beside Dog-botherer's, as they follow the tail end of the crowd out into the Quadrangle.

"What d'you mean? He's been deputy head forever, it was only a matter of time.."

"I think Dr Mericet prides himself on his neutrality, that's all."

When he catches sight of the look on Downey's face, Vetinari seems to take pity on him. "Dr Spalding is.." Dog-botherer's voice is always quiet but he still turns his head, calm as anything, to look at the corridor behind them then steps a little closer to Downey as they pass into the cloister. "considered to be rather more of a cheerleader for our current governance than most."

At the even blanker look on Downey's face, a fraction of a sigh. "He's seen by many to be Snapcase's man, Downey. A lot of gentleman are displeased by that. This latest appointment is pretty much a result of a nudge to the council from above."

"But...he can't _do_ that, surely. The dark council's authority is, um... sacrosanct, it's never been meddled with. Well, not since the early days – what I mean is, they can't just let Snapcase tell them what to do, Patrician or not...?"

Vetinari just smiles and raises both eyebrows, as they step off the cool stone of the cloister and onto the gravel, which is already baking from the midday sun.

"And, uh, I don't understand why Folly decided to leave anyway...you don't really think it's because of his health, do you? The old boy looked just fine."

"Perhaps he felt it was ...better for his continued good health that he take early retirement?"

"You mean he jumped before he was pushed." It's definitely not a trick of the light. Dog-botherer is smiling, and at him."Odo Pully says there was a woman involved."

"Mm, yes. I believe he's decided to holiday with Lady Meserole-"

"Oh _her_. Yeah, she was at table a while ago, they call her _Madam_. I heard she was a complete floozy."

"a-..."

"My dad told me about women like them. Said they'd be whatever they needed to be to get what they wanted. Masked women, he calls them. Like a painted woman, but she's dangerous - She'd be Lord Palmer's widow one day and a broker's daughter the next – she'd be a king's whore and your friend's girl ...she'd even be your-"

"My aunt."

"Well yeah, I suppose she could be your aunt – turn up on your doorstep claiming to be a relative-"

"No, I meant she _is_ my aunt. I grew up with her."

"Oh."

"Yes."

_Foot. Mouth. Again._ His heart sinks.

"Oh gods, Vetinari I'm sorry for-"

But by this point Vetinari is –not laughing, but smiling that crooked grin and shaking his head. "Not at all – I rather think Madam would be _flattered_ to hear such an ah, incredible description of herself. Masked women, what an...interesting term. "

There is nothing else to do at this point but hope that the heat in his cheeks isn't translating to a blush.

They walk on through the courtyard, the sun's warmth on their backs.

* * *

* In this respect Downey is actually very much suited to nobility.

** this detail, young Cressida getting married ahead of Francesca, as well as the couple's relatively young age immediately sets tongues wagging among the society gossips – surely the girl must be in trouble?

***He's not sure where this sudden deep reserve of Tact has come from. Possibly Dog-botherer is rubbing off on him.

**** In a boarding school full of boys, this is a sign of True Friendship.

* * *

Author's Notes:

The Marquis of Faintailler business is a reference to the Oscar Wilde scandal, with his roundworld equivalent the Marquis of Queensbury.  
It may actually be impossible for Downey to go more than five minutes without introducing his foot to his mouth, the poor lad.


End file.
